by Murray Pura
“You didn’t think to tell them they were posting you to your father’s squadron in Eleven Group, Ramsay?”
“I thought I did.”
“You thought? Your mother will have me for high tea once she gets wind of this.” Ben glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand. “Wait a minute. What do we have here? Pilot Officer White?”
“I didn’t tell them that.”
“How did they end up with White as your last name? What happened to the rest of it? No wonder you were posted here.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Ben fixed his eyes on the youth standing at attention next to Ramsay. “Matt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you another one who lost your voice? Why didn’t you tell them I was your uncle?”
“James and Sean are at Pickering Green with Uncle Kipp, sir. Why can’t I be posted here with you?”
“Kipp’s in a hospital in London.”
“Yes, sir, he is now. But he flew with James and Sean for weeks during the thick of the fighting.”
“ ‘The thick of the fighting?’ Do you think it’s let up then?”
“Well, I—”
“We have to stop them from wiping out London, don’t we? And they haven’t stopped bombing our airfields either.” Ben jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The invasion barges are still queued up in French ports. Hitler has every intention of knocking the RAF out of the game so he can land his troops on our beaches. That’s the rosy little picture I want to paint for you today. Seven hundred RAF. Against thousands of the Luftwaffe’s best pilots. It’s desperate. And what do I get for replacements? My son and one of his mates. Both of who finished school a few short weeks ago.”
“Dad, you know—”
“Don’t call me Dad.” Ben glanced back down at the papers they’d given him. “How many hours on Spits, Pilot Officer White?”
“Umm…” Ben could see that Ramsay wanted to count on his fingers. “Five? Five and a half?”
“That’s it? That’s all?” Ben looked at Matthew. “Please make me happy and tell me you’ve had ten or twelve or fifteen.”
“If you count the Hurricane it’s closer to seven or eight, Uncle…Squadron Leader.”
“Uncle Squadron Leader? Try not to use that when you’re on your R/T. How many hours on Spits? It’s a different brew of a fighter than the Hurricane.”
“More than four, sir.”
“More than four?”
“I keep a log. It’s closer to four and a quarter.”
Ben put his hands on his hips. “I’m not praying enough. That’s it. The Lord looks down and says, ‘Whitecross doesn’t have enough prayer in his life. Send his son and his nephew as squadron replacements.’ I’d better go spend an hour on my knees.”
“Yes, sir,” responded his son.
“Don’t agree with me, Ramsay.”
“No, sir.”
“I expect you’re both squared away. Have your gear in your rooms?”
They nodded.
“Right. Well, I don’t have time to ship you back to where you came from today, Pilot Officers White and Danforth. Come with me and I’ll show you your kites. The WAAFs ferried them in early this morning.”
They and several other raw recruits fell in step behind him. Next to several bombed-out hangars were two new Spitfires. Ben glanced back and saw the excitement in the young men’s faces and was unsuccessful in keeping back his own smile.
“Try not to get shot down just when you’re up at bat, all right?” Ben rested his hand on the wing of the first Spitfire. “Give those Nazi bowlers some real hardship. Score a hundred runs. Jerry wants to wear us out. Let’s prolong the match and grind him down instead.”
“Squadron Leader!”
Ben turned around. “What is it, Nesbitt?”
“Urgent call for you, sir. London.”
“You mean the lines are working again?”
“For now.”
“I’d better get right on it then.” Ben started across the runway for his hut. He glanced back. “Did you two have any breakfast?”
“No, sir,” replied Ramsay.
“Better hop into the Officers’ Mess and get some ham and eggs. If they call us up after Jerry, there’s no telling when we’ll get the feedbag on you again.”
Ben went into his room in a small hut and shut the door.
“Whitecross,” he said into the phone.
“Ben, it’s Emma. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning and I keep losing my connection.”
“Em. Glad you’ve got through. How’s everything? What’s up?”
“The Germans struck Camden and West London last night. Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, Downing Street, Kensington High Street, the lot. Mum and Dad were badly hurt and they’re both in hospital.”
“What?”
“Your house was bombed too. So was Kipp’s. Victoria and Caroline have both been hospitalized.”
“Vic!”
“Now listen to me. She’s doing well. Holding her own. So is Mum. It’s Dad and Caroline we’re worried about. Caroline lost a lot of blood. And Dad hasn’t woken up. They’re afraid there’s been a stroke.”
Ice cold swept Ben’s body and mind and then a raging heat. “What business do the bombers have going there? They’ve been hitting the docks. What good are West London and Camden to them?”
“They wanted to go after the king and queen and prime minister, didn’t they? Wanted to show us they could strike anyone anywhere.”
“What about Tim? Where’s Tim?”
“He’s fine. He’s with us here. Billy’s talking to him.”
“Not cut up? Not wounded?”
“No.”
“How are Catherine and Albrecht? How is Angelika? They were all in your mum and dad’s house.”
Emma’s voice came and went as the phone connection lost power. “The bottom floor is ruined. Completely blown out. But Catherine and the family were in bed on the top floor. They’re a bit shell-shocked but they haven’t been hurt.”
Ben finally sat down in his chair. “Tell me about Caroline.”
“Charles was with her. He rescued Cecilia, got her out of her bedroom before the house collapsed. Had them both on the street and made Cecilia lie down next to Caroline so he could cover them both with his body.”
“What? Nazi Charles?”
“Another five or six bombs landed on the street. A good number of their neighbors were killed outright. Yes, Nazi Charles kept the flying glass and brick and wood splinters from his mum and little sister. Who would have thought it? He took a lot of wounds.”
“Isn’t Eva living with them?”
“She’s Air Raid Precautions now. She was out on patrol. Her crew was helping out bomb victims a half mile away.”
Ben hesitated a moment, forming the unlikely image in his mind of Charles protecting Caroline and Cecilia from a rain of angry debris. “Is Vic awake?”
“Yes. I’ve been to see her already this morning. They’ll not keep her in there long. She—”
The connection was suddenly lost.
“Hullo! Hullo!” Ben slammed the phone down. “Rotten luck!”
He ran his hand over his mouth. We had rough times at the mission in Kenya, my God. You pulled us through. I need You to do that for us again. All of us. But especially Vic’s dad. Especially him. And Caroline. You know Kipp needs her. You know we all do.
A phone in a nearby hut jangled.
I don’t know what to make of Charles. I honestly don’t. I got wind that Lord Tanner had whipped him and that the concentration camps had soured him on the Gestapo and SS. But he still seems to think a proper Nazism is not only Germany’s future, but Europe’s and Britain’s. I had it in my mind that he welcomed the bombing, hoping it would bring us to our knees and get a Nazi regime in place well before Guy Fawkes. Lord, I confess to being confused about the young man. I did not think he would risk his life for his mother and sibling. For Eva perhaps, but not for his British family.
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“Scramble!”
Ben blinked and jumped to his feet. Ramsay and Matt came tumbling out of the Officers’ Mess as Ben was swinging his metal legs into the cockpit.
“Get up!” Ben shouted at them. “Stick with me! And those three blokes with the yellow props on their kites!”
“What?” Ramsay shouted back.
“The two Canucks and the Yank! See them? Ten feet tall?”
Three very tall and very lean men were vaulting into their Spitfires on the far side of the airfield. The yellow props stood out among the white and black ones. Maple leafs for enemy aircraft shot down were on two of the planes. The other had stars.
“Where are we going?” yelled Ramsay.
The thunder of Rolls Royce Merlin engines made it impossible for Ben to reply. Strapping himself into his seat, he could only point at the sky. The Canadian pilots were already moving along the runway. Ben fired off a prayer for Ramsay and Matthew, taxied his aircraft into position behind the Canadians, and was airborne in thirty seconds. He kept his canopy open until he could see that his whole squadron was up. Then he slammed it shut and began the climb to twenty thousand feet along with the others.
Harrison asked three different nurses how to find Caroline’s room and finally made his way down a corridor crammed with patients on trolleys. A flash lit up the dark window as he stood in the doorway and saw Caroline motionless on her bed. The flash was followed by a blast that made the glass pane vibrate. Charles was sitting in a chair beside his mother. He looked up.
“Harrison,” Charles whispered.
Harrison removed his fedora. “I’ve been to see the lord and lady and Victoria as well. Lord Preston is still unconscious.”
“I’ve heard Mum talk a bit. There was even a scrap of a laugh once.”
“May I join you?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Harrison pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed.
“Have you been sitting here by yourself a long time then?” asked Harrison.
“They’ve all been by at one time or another. Aunt Libby. Uncle Robert. Aunt Emma and Uncle Jeremy. Aunt Char. The lot.”
“How’s your sister getting along?”
“Cecilia is with Angelika and her parents. She seems to be all right.”
“I’ve been to the others. Lord Preston is not responding. But his wife is up and around and so is your Aunt Victoria. I expect you will see them here tomorrow. The prime minister dropped by briefly to look in on your grandfather.”
Charles said nothing.
Harrison cleared his throat. “People tell me you covered your mother and sister with your own body while the bombs were falling.”
“Anyone would have done that.”
“They say you were wounded.”
“Scratches.”
“Still. It’s unusual behavior for someone who wanted the bombs to drop.”
“Not on houses, Harrison. On the docks. On airfields. On factories.”
“You know better than that, Charles. The bombs fell on houses and civilians in Guernica and Warsaw and Rotterdam. Why should England be any different?”
Charles looked down. “You must think me an odd Nazi beast. One minute I’m showing you the wounds my father inflicted on me and the next I’m back listening to one of his broadcasts and applauding. I detest the concentration camps and how the Jews have been treated there, yet that doesn’t stop me from marching with the British Union of Fascists and shouting anti-Jewish slogans, does it? The truth is that quite often I’m sick of myself and how I swing from one position to the other.” His fingers curled around his mother’s hand. “They’ve arrested the BUF leaders.”
Harrison nodded. “I’d heard that.”
“The police came by and questioned me. I was properly repentant.”
“Mm.”
“The thing is, I am, you know. At least right now with my mother lying here. One of my mood swings again.”
“There’s color coming back into her cheeks.”
“There is, isn’t there?”
“I’m sure she’ll pull through. I’ll come by again tomorrow with Lady Holly.” Harrison stood up.
“Who’s taking care of Ashton Park in your absence?”
“The three dogs. And Todd Turpin.”
Charles got to his feet and shook Harrison’s hand. “I look forward to seeing you and Aunt Holly tomorrow. Thanks for coming by.”
“Caroline means a great deal to all of us.”
“I appreciate that. Will you…” Charles stopped and then started again. “Will you pray for her, Harrison?”
“I will.”
Charles sat back in his chair as Harrison patted the boy on the shoulder and left.
“Now, Mum,” Charles asked quietly, “do you think I’ll ever get to the point where I’m praying for you for myself?”
Then he closed his eyes for just a moment’s rest, but within seconds he was asleep in his chair.
“Charles.”
“Mmm?”
“Charles.”
Charles’s eyes opened. Kipp was standing over him. Both his arms were covered in large casts. Charles scrambled to his feet.
“Kipp…Mr. Danforth.”
“Hullo, Charles. I finally made my way here from the other side of the city, Heinkels and five hundred pounders and all. How is she?”
“She…she just lies there without moving. I keep hoping she’ll sit up and, well, laugh for me.”
“Ah, her wonderful Scarborough laugh.” Kipp smiled down at her. “How lovely she is. Always lovely, your mother.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you? How are you holding up?”
“I’m all right.”
“I was told you took a lot of nasty cuts from flying glass and splinters.”
“Not so nasty.”
“What about Cecilia?”
“Right as rain. She’s with Uncle Albrecht and Aunt Catherine. And Angelika.”
“Capital. I’m back home in a couple of days. Not that I’ll be able to do much with my arms like this. I hope you’ll be there. You’ll surely be needed.”
“If Mum is better.”
“Of course.” Kipp carefully lowered himself into the chair Harrison had used.
“And we’ll need somewhere else to live.”
“I expect we will.”
The windows flickered and flashed. A thump made them glance out. The far darkness ignited and glowed red.
“Incendiaries fell on our street, just a few of them.” Charles’s face was lined with crimson and black. “The one body I saw was like melted wax. Just as if a wick had burned right down to the bottom of a candle and guttered there. Do you suppose we’ll use…the British will use incendiaries in their bombings?”
“I hope not,” Kipp replied. “But wars always go from bad to worse the longer they last. Poison gas in the last war. Fire bombings in this one. Soon you use anything you can get your hands on that will help you win.”
“Will the Germans win?”
“They might. But we put six to seven hundred kites up every day against them.”
“The bombers still get through.”
“When you fill the sky with as many as Jerry does, some are always bound to get through.”
Charles looked at the casts on Kipp’s arms. “Do you think you’ll fly again? Or is that it?”
Kipp shook his head. “I’m not done yet.”
Sunday, September 15, 1940
RAF King’s Cross, West Sussex
Ramsay sat in his cockpit, “the office” as his father called it, and watched the exhausts on the engine cowlings of the Spitfires blaze a bright blue in the dawn darkness. He was cold and cramped, and the only things that were warm were his hands because they were wrapped around a mug of hot tea. He hardly drank any of it, preferring it remain hot and in the mug where he felt it could do his hands the most good.
Right, Ramsay, are you listening?
I am, Dad.
Don’t call
me Dad. The Me 109 has a fuel-injected engine. The Spit doesn’t. So the Me 109 can go into a steep dive to get away and the fuel continues to feed into the engine. If we go into as steep a dive, the g-force pushes the fuel away from the motor and we stall.
Isn’t there anything we can do?
Perform a half roll if you must go after him. That will help keep the petrol feeding into the Rolls Royce engine.
The sun was up. The sky was gold and blue. Ben signaled his squadron to turn their engines off. Several took the opportunity to get out and stretch their legs. Ramsay gave Matthew a thumbs up. Matt grinned and waved his hand. Another hour went by. Ramsay climbed down to the ground when his father approached.
“Take a quick break and get yourself some more tea,” Ben said. “Haul Matt along with you.”
“Do you think we’ll go up today?”
“Oh, we’ll go up. It’s perfect flying weather. Jerry will be on his way soon.”
Ramsay slapped Matt’s airplane. “Come on. Let’s get some more tea.”
“The last thing I need is more tea.”
“Well then, use the gent’s room, and then get some more tea.”
A flare suddenly burst over the runway.
“Scramble!” a corporal shouted from a hut. “All squadrons!”
Ramsay dropped his mug, and it broke in two.
His father was shouting at him. “Never mind all that! Get in and get up!”
“See you in the clouds, Ram!” called Matt.
“I hope so!” Ramsay called back.
In minutes all four King’s Cross squadrons were in the air and climbing.
Operations bunker, RAF Hillingdon, Uxbridge
“Heinkel 111s, fifty plus, angels two five, same bearing, straight on for London.”
“Yes, I have that,” Jane responded. “Heinkel 111s, fifty plus, twenty-five thousand feet, same bearing.”
“Fighter escort, Me 109s, sixty plus, angels three zero, same bearing.”
“Right, I have that, Me 109s, sixty plus, thirty thousand feet, same bearing.”
She began to push wooden counters across the map toward London. All the counters from all the WAAFs were converging on London. Information continued to be relayed to her more and more rapidly, and she placed more and more counters on the map. The destination was always the same.
“The prime minister.”